


Lucky Bastard

by thewolvescalledmehome



Series: Lucky Bastard [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Kinda, Modern Royalty, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:34:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24357391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewolvescalledmehome/pseuds/thewolvescalledmehome
Summary: As a young queen, Sansa knows who she marries is incredibly important. She had seen first hand what marrying the wrong person had done to Robb and his rule. Her advisors create a list of suitors and throw a ball in order for her to find her match.She resigns herself to finding someone she can tolerate, respect, but the men at the ball all talk at her instead of to her, so she escapes to the gardens for a moment of peace.Where she meets Jon.For the Queen Sansa Royalty Event on tumblr.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: Lucky Bastard [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1774222
Comments: 15
Kudos: 221
Collections: Queen Sansa Jonsa Event





	Lucky Bastard

Sansa thought she looked like the princess figurine that had spun in the music box she’d had as a girl. Except the ballgown that the princess wore had been blush, not a sky blue. Sansa knew her thirteen-year-old self would have probably loved the gown, but twenty-five-year-old Sansa found it ridiculous.

She hadn’t been allowed to design it herself. They had wanted her in something romantic and traditional. If she’d done it herself, she probably still would have kept the romantic touches, like the sweetheart neckline and the pastel color, but she definitely would have preferred something more modern. Something without what was essentially a corset or a skirt full enough it kept all of her dance partners at a half foot distance.

But then again, if Sansa had it her way, this ball wouldn’t be happening in the first place.

Sansa Stark had never been heir to the throne. She had never been meant to rule.

Her father was supposed to until a ripe old age, and then Robb would become king.

But Ned fell ill and abdicated when she was only twenty.

Robb had stepped up and become king far sooner than anyone expected—at twenty-one he was one of the youngest their history remembered. Little better than a boy king.

He was a good king and he was forced to prove his ability to rule almost immediately as several neighboring countries decided it was their duty to test him and his skills. And he was good. He led them through it all with the grace of a seasoned general.

Only he fell in love with the wrong woman. He decided, when the public forced him to choose between his crown and the woman he loved, that the crown was the thing he could live without.

And so Sansa, the second born, the spare, became queen just after she’d turned twenty-five.

And as the country didn’t trust the young king, they certainly didn’t trust the young unmarried queen who had never been meant to rule.

Hence the need for a husband.

Hence the ball.

Her advisors, who only six years ago had advised her father, thought the best way to quell the distrust and potential dislike was to throw a ball and have her marry a man that would prove an equal strategist to Robb, but also who the public approved of.

They wanted to make sure she avoided the mistakes they thought Robb made.

Her advisors spent months scouring the tabloids, the intelligence files, and anything else they could get their hands on to make sure that all of her best options were invited.

Sansa tried to approach the ball, her gown, and the inevitable marriage that followed with a sense of pragmaticism. She was queen now, and this was her duty. This was what was expected of her.

She always knew her marriage would be part alliance, part politics. She just hadn’t expected it to all happen so quickly.

* * *

The day of the ball, Sansa donned the gown, feeling as though she were more so putting on armor than a ballgown. It took two people to get her into it, one holding the skirt open and one helping her step into it.

Sansa had always found strapless gowns to be a bit uncomfortable. She didn’t like how tight they had to be to make sure it all stayed up, or how the built in supports usually made her overcorrect her posture.

The gown now seemed doubly uncomfortable, but Sansa supposed that was probably more to do with the fact she knew she was going to end the night engaged.

* * *

She typically had found the ballroom airy with its large doors that led to the courtyard and high windows. Now though, packed with men, she thought it was stifling.

Had she been more sober, Sansa may have wondered if it was the actual heat or the eyes of all the men that she found oppressive.

Her advisors had sent out invitations to every single man within marrying age that they thought would make a suitable match. It was a far greater number than Sansa had expected, and she was the only one any of them wanted to spend any time with.

It meant she was drinking her champagne faster than was proper for a queen trying to find a husband. She should have been making a single flute last hours, but she found she required it in order to get through a conversation with some of the men.

They all spoke to her about policy, about foreign affairs, about mistake they thought either her brother or father made and how they would have done better.

But no, talking _to_ her wasn’t quite what was happening.

Talking _at_ her was more accurate.

After talking to a man who claimed that his family once would have been considered royalty as well, Sansa found ballroom intolerable, her head spinning.

She needed a moment of peace.

She needed a moment of air.

“I’m sorry, if you’ll excuse me…” she murmured, cutting him off.

The irritated call of _Your Majesty_ sounded as though it came through water.

She knew she should turn around. She knew she should stop and talk to some of the men who tried to catch her eye.

But she didn’t.

She cut forcefully through the crowd, her focus only on the doors that seemed to be stretching further and further away.

Bursting into the courtyard, Sansa tried to draw a full breath. Her lungs felt clogged, waterlogged. As if there was only an inch of empty space left for the air.

Her gown had forced her to breathe shallowly for most of the evening, but this was different.

Sansa had thought that once she was outside, in the fresh evening air, she might find it easier to breathe, but her torso strained against the tight lacing of her gown, her lungs burning.

Once she was out of sight of the doors, she hauled up her skirts and bolted into the garden maze.

 _It must be the champagne,_ she thought, _the champagne and the damned gown_.

Chest heaving, Sansa’s fingers scrambled at the zipper hidden in the seam of her dress. If only she could inflate her lungs just _a little more_.

“Oh! I’m sor—C-can I help?” a man asked, startling Sansa, her fingers still struggling to grasp her zipper.

Tears pricked her eyes.

Why couldn’t she breathe?

Why were fingers shaking so much?

Black spots floated in her vision.

“I can’t breathe,” she gasped. “I can’t breathe.”

Suddenly, she felt rough fingers against hers and the whisper of her zipper being pulled down.

The same fingers brushed against her back, unhooking the clasp of her strapless supports.

“There’s a bench here,” he murmured, his mouth near to her ear.

In different circumstances, it may have filled her stomach with butterflies.

The man helped her lower herself onto the bench, and it took all of her wherewithal to keep the bodice of her dress from falling down.

“Are… Are you all right?” the man asked a moment later, kneeling in front of her.

Sansa took another deep breath before opening her eyes and looking at him for the first time.

He was one of the suitors who was closer to her in age. She guessed he was probably a few years older, maybe Robb’s age. Most of the other suitors in the ballroom were over thirty or barely twenty.

“Better. Thank you…” she trailed off, noticing what he wore. It was military dress uniform, and the badges told her he was well decorated. Well decorated and higher ranked than most men his age. “Captain…?”

“Snow. Captain Jon Snow.”

Sansa figured he must be one of the men invited for their strategy, not necessarily for how the public viewed him.

“Thank you, Captain Snow.”

He straightened from his kneeling position only to bend at the waist in a full bow.

“Your Majesty.”

 _Little formal considering you just undid my bra_ , Sansa thought. She immediately blushed. She had definitely drank too much champagne.

That was also evident by the fact she was sitting hidden in the garden maze with her dress and bra undone with a man.

If the public found out, the tabloids would have a field day. It’d be worse than what happened with Robb.

She should go back to the ball. She should ask him to do zip her dress back up.

Sansa opened her mouth, but asking him to hook her bra left her tongue tied.

“Were you in the maze alone, Captain Snow?”

“I was, Your Majesty.”

“Was the music not to your liking?”

“I liked the music just fine. It’s… It’s the crowds I’m not a fan of. I-Is that what brought you out here as well?”

“The heat and champagne had got to my head.”

Jon Snow nodded, looking away, back towards the mouth of the maze.

Sansa knew he should return to the ball, as should she, but she couldn’t until her dress was redone.

And he was the first man that talking to hadn’t pained her all night.

“That’s not entirely true,” Sansa commented a moment later, drawing his attention back to her. “It wasn’t just the heat and alcohol. I couldn’t fake my way through another conversation,” she told him honestly. Too honestly.

_Damn the champagne._

“Shall I leave you, then? Your Majesty?”

“No. Stay. Sit, please.”

She slid over on the bench, something a queen probably—definitely—wasn’t supposed to do.

He sat beside her, at least a foot of space between them. Sansa adjusted her gown that was still unfastened in the back.

“Tell me something,” she said.

“Anything, Your Majesty.”

“No, no. I meant tell me something. Anything. Anything to keep me from going back in there.”

“Oh. Um. Alright.”

He started talking about his dog then, Ghost, and how hard it had been to be away from him.

Sansa listened to him talk, relieved to not have to be _on_ for the first time that night. He was the first one who didn’t talk to her about anything political.

She realized after a what was probably fifteen or twenty minutes that she knew more about him than she did any of the other men that had been invited. He was the first one who shared anything personal about himself beyond political opinions or lineage.

And she felt far more comfortable with him, even with her dress half off, than she had anyone else in the ballroom.

After barely half an hour of talking, Sansa realized if she had to end this night engaged, Captain Jon Snow was someone she would be comfortable with.

He hadn’t mentioned her gown or why she was out there in the maze at all, and he told her silly stories about his dog.

Sansa had always wanted a dog.

She would have to talk with her advisors before she officially proposed, but if he had been invited, then he must have been appropriate, right?

* * *

Sansa sat with Captain Jon Snow until the night air chilled the warmth she’d had from the champagne. The effects that had worn off a while ago.

Sansa knew it had passed proper a while ago, but it was too good—too easy. She forgot entirely about the ballroom full of suitors that were all waiting for her.

“Shall we go back inside, Your Majesty?” he asked. “You’re shivering.”

“You’ll have to do up my dress first.” Her voice was lower, sultrier than she had meant it to be. She’d meant it to be factual—her dress needed to be rezipped before they went back inside and she couldn’t do it herself. It _was_ a statement of fact.

But when she turned to expose her back to him, it didn’t feel so clinical.

Nor did the way his knuckles skimmed her back as he hooked her bra.

Sansa thought she heard him clear his throat as he zipped the gown, but that was probably from how long they had spent talking.

“There,” he whispered, his fingers just gazing her back above the zipper. His voice had definitely roughed from talking too long.

“Thank you, Captain Snow. And thank you, for before. Though I’d prefer if you didn’t mention it to anyone.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

His voice evened out, sounding more like it had when he’d talked about his dog.

“Would you care to escort me back inside, Captain Snow?”

“Please, call me Jon, Your Majesty.”

“If I’m to call you Jon, then you must call me Sansa.”

“Sansa,” he murmured, his voice gruff again. She shivered, but the goosebumps had nothing to do with the chill that had crept into the evening.

Jon offered her his elbow and she took it with a smile.

* * *

“Do you have the file on Captain Jon Snow?” Sansa asked her advisors, who had been stationed in an antechamber of the ballroom.

“Captain Jon Snow? For what purpose?”

“He is the only man at this ball I could see myself marrying.”

“Remember, this is not a love match. This is meant to be someone who will both prove to be a skilled strategist and appease the masses.”

“But he was invited!” Sansa insisted. She hated that it sounded more like a whine than like regal command. “You said you invited the all the suitable matches.”

“We did. Some men, however, were unable to attend, and sent proxies instead.”

“Proxies?” she repeated dumbly.

“A proxy is—”

“I know what a damned proxy is. Why would they send proxies if I’m meant to use the ball to get a feel for _them_?”

A flush was clawing across Sansa’s skin, but it wasn’t the breathless kind she had felt when Jon had zipped her gown. This one made her feel sick.

Her advisors glanced as each other, as if they had been unaware that that had been one of the reasons for the ball in the first place.

_As if this ball had nothing to do with her._

“Who is he the proxy for?”

“Mance Rayder.” They passed her a file. This Mance Rayder was king of a kingdom beyond Winterfell, further North. It seemed he had become king not because of his name or bloodline, but because the people had _wanted_ him. It also seemed that he was quite a bit older. He’d been windowed and had a son already.

“The people prefer him?” she asked.

He didn’t seem to be an attractive man, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

“They would, if they knew what a marriage with him could offer.”

 _So, no,_ Sansa thought.

“Why wasn’t I made aware of the fact some men sent proxies before tonight?”

“We didn’t think it relevant.”

 _Relevant?_ Sansa almost screamed. It was only her years of training as a lady that she didn’t.

“Compile a file on Captain Jon Snow. I want it before the end of the ball,” she demanded before sweeping from the antechamber, trying to look as queenly as possible. Trying to look far more queenly than she felt in that moment.

* * *

“Your Majesty? The file you requested,” a maid whispered, surreptitiously passing her a manila envelope.

“Thank you.”

Sansa took the file and slipped back out to the courtyard. This time, she sat at a bench within sight of the windows.

Sansa couldn’t deny the butterflies she felt as she opened the file.

_JON SNOW_

_AGE: 29_

_BIRTHPLACE: WINTERFELL KINGDOM_

_RANK: CAPTAIN_

_NOTABLE EXPERIENCE: RANGER, UNDERCONVER SERIVCE, BATTLE OF HARDHOME (STRATEGIST), BATTLE OF CASTLE BLACK (CAPTAIN), BATTLE AGAINST BOLTONS (CAPTAIN)_

Sansa didn’t understand why he hadn’t been invited based on his military experience alone. She _knew_ there were men in that ballroom who had lower rank and less experience who had been invited as themselves, not as a damned proxy.

_LINEAGE:_

_PARENTAGE:_

Sansa also didn’t understand why both the lineage and parentage sections on the second page were blank. Did they not want her to know? Usually when she had seen redacted information, it had a black line through it.

But that had all been before her coronation.

As queen, there should be no redacted information.

_Why was his file so thin?_

_NOTABLE UPBRINGING: Taken in at age eight. Worked in Winterfell Keep kitchens until old enough to enlist._

_Oh,_ she realized suddenly. That was both the reason why the second page was mostly blank and why he hadn’t been invited. He had no family, no name. He had even worked in the palace kitchens before he enlisted.

He was common. More common than the woman Robb had fallen in love with. More common than the woman Robb had given up everything for.

Sansa shut the file and stood.

She had an idea.

“Tell them I won’t propose tonight,” she told the advisors, slamming the file down on their table.

“Your Majesty, all due respect—”

“I won’t propose tonight,” Sansa repeated. “I will propose by the end of the week. If— _if_ ,” she stressed, forcing them all to look at her, “If you leak to the tabloids that Captain Jon Snow is a possibility. I want to know what the public thinks.”

“Your Majesty, if we leak that… It’ll offend every other suitor here.”

“Fine, then leak several names. The rest of them from your lists. See who the public prefers.”

Her advisors stared at her, unmoving.

“It’s the wisest move, is it not, after everything that happened with Robb? To know the public’s opinion before anything’s official?”

Her advisors looked at each other, breaking.

“What other names do you suggest releasing?”

* * *

Sansa kept careful watch over the polls during the week following the ball.

She had tried to be fair with the names she told them to release, so they were all possible options. She told herself she would propose to whoever had the highest votes at the end of the week, but by the time Wednesday dawned, Captain Jon Snow was in second place.

He was being beat by a man called Young Griff—that couldn’t be his real name, Sansa thought. _I refuse to call him that_ —whom she’d barely spoken to at the ball.

All she knew about him was that he was young, attractive, and had a family name.

Apparently, that was enough for the public.

But it was only a few points. Points she could count on one hand.

Would she really allow that to be the deciding factor on who she marry?

Sansa had wanted it to be fair. She had wanted the public’s honest opinion. But late Wednesday evening, she still called several media outlets to ask them to dig up more information of Captain Jon Snow, hoping to whatever gods there were, it was positive.

* * *

Sansa spent Thursday obsessively checking the polls.

The media had released a fluff story about Jon Snow from his early days as captain. She hoped it was true. It had put him and Young Griff within a tenth of a point from each other.

* * *

“If _Captain_ Jon Snow is in first place by the time the weekend hits, will he be a suitable match?” she demanded.

Her advisors all glanced at one another.

“H-he has proved himself as a strategist, I suppose…”

Sansa didn’t stick around to hear any more than that.

* * *

When Sansa have the address to her driver, he didn’t even look at her. She wasn’t sure if it was because he had been warned or because he was trained well enough not to judge. He was the same driver Robb used, and there had been rumors that there had been late night meetings between him and Jeyne before anything was known to the public. Or the family.

Maybe her driver was just well versed in discretion.

Or maybe she was the one in the dark, she thought when they arrived at the base.

She had thought this a personal address, not a military base.

But it was the only one in his file.

Sansa had dressed casually, for a queen, but she couldn’t deny herself wearing a dress that zipped up the back.

When the driver pulled up in front of the address, Sansa pulled her cap low over her eyes and pushed up her sunglasses, even though it was only a few feet of space between the car and the front door.

She doubted anyone followed her, but still. She couldn’t have anything in the tabloids that hadn’t been approved.

“Y-your Majesty?” Jon Snow wheezed when he opened the door.

“Shh! _Sansa,”_ she hissed.

“What can I do for you, Sansa?”

The words came out individually, as if he was forcing them.

Sansa suddenly wondered if this was a bad idea. After all, he’d only been at the ball as a proxy. What if he hadn’t felt the same things she had as he zipped her dress?

“C-can I come inside?”

“Oh, yeah, a’course. Please,” he mumbled, holding the door wide.

Once she was inside, Sansa removed the cap and sunglasses, shaking her hair out.

She couldn’t help but notice how his eyes watched her. How his eyes watched how her hair flowed over her shoulders, her bust, and dropped to her belted waist.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thank you.”

She wished she’d worn something with pockets. Then she’d have a place to put her hands. Now they just hung at her side, tucked awkwardly in the pleats of her dress.

“So, um… I’m sure you’re aware of the purpose for the ball last weekend?”

“You’re in search of a husband.”

_Husband._

In all the discussions of the ball, of her marriage, the word _husband_ had never actually been used. It had always been _match_ or _suitor._ Husband held such a different connotation.

“I am, yeah. But I understand you were there as a proxy?” she hedged, stepping closer.

It was easier now, in this dress.

But it was harder, too, because she could smell his cologne or shampoo and it filled her with nerves.

So did the apprehension in his eyes.

“I was. Mance Rayder was unable to attend. He sent me in his stead.”

“And what did you report? If you’re comfortable sharing?”

“That you’re beautiful,” he whispered. “And smarter than anyone gives you credit for.”

Jon didn’t meet her eyes, and Sansa found herself wishing she could step forward, take his hand, force his eyes up.

“Is that all?”

“Is there something else you would have liked me to tell him?”

“Have you been reading the tabloids?” she asked, because she rather not answer that question. She could tell by his face that he couldn’t read her topic change.

“Gossip magazines don’t really make their way onto base,” he muttered. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

Sansa studied him. His awkward hands, his adverted stare. He understood that she was queen, unlike so many of the other men at the ball. He didn’t try to show her up or put her down.

Their country had never had a queen. They’d only ever had queen consorts. Sansa had never expressed to her advisors that she wanted her husband— _husband_ , _gods, was that weird_ —to be king. She wanted him to be prince consort, the way Robb’s wife may have been a consort if he hadn’t abdicated.

The way her mother was a consort, despite how deeply her father loved her.

Sansa was pretty sure, after the ball and meeting all the supposedly suitable men in the kingdom, that Jon would be the only one to accept that title without a fight.

“You’re in the lead,” she whispered.

Jon’s eyes snapped to hers. His grey eyes swallowed her. She felt like she only existed to him in that moment.

“In the lead… For your husband?”

“The papers didn’t realize you were there by proxy,” she shrugged, as if she hadn’t purposefully withheld that piece of information. As if that piece of information hadn’t been purposefully withheld from her.

“And, what, you promised to propose to whoever the public preferred?”

There was a bitterness in his voice that Sansa didn’t quite understand. She vowed to, though. One day she wanted to understand why Jon Snow had said those words so vehemently. With such poison.

“No,” she whispered, stepping closer.

Sansa knew she was probably invading his space at that point. Her heels were nearly toe to toe with his boots.

“I made my advisors promise to leak your name to see how the public felt about you.”

“And they preferred me?” He sounded skeptical.

“I wanted to prove that you’d be a good match.”

She stepped closer again, until their noses almost brushed.

Sansa thought he might step back. She expected him to.

What she did not expect was him holding his breath like being near her was like being underwater. Like he couldn’t breathe when she was around. He trembled with how still he stood.

“I don’t understand,” he murmured, his voice no more than a breath.

His eyes focused on her shoulder, her collarbone, maybe.

Jon’s fingers grazed her own, where they were hidden in the pleats of her skirt. Sansa thought it might have been accidental, given they’d only touched for the briefest of seconds, but the twitch in his jaw made her wonder.

“I dreamed about you, after the ball.”

“You did?”

His voice was just as unsteady, as soft, as hers.

Jon’s eyes moved from where they’d been tracing the line of her shoulder to her face. The grey that she had thought was a pretty dove color seemed much darker now, like steel. He glanced at her mouth once before looking away again.

“What are you doing here, Sansa?”

She felt how is body tensed as if he was about to take a step back, about to break the connection.

“I’m trying to propose, Jon.”

“Because the public prefers me? And you’re trying to avoid what happened with your brother.”

The second part came out like it was a revelation and this time he did actually step away from her.

It took everything she had to not grab his hands and hold him.

Everything she had not to kiss him.

Put his hands on her back, ask him to slide her zipper down.

Sansa had never done this before—never confessed her feelings like this. She’d had one boyfriend as a teenager, but he was a diplomat’s son and they had mostly just went to events together and kissed in corners.

It had been nice, but waves of words she didn’t know how to say didn’t crash through her the way they did now.

“Sit with me,” she said suddenly. She hated that she was inviting him to sit in his own house, but just like how she had to be the one to propose, she had to be the one to invite him to sit with her.

Jon led her to the small living room without a glance back at her.

Again, Sansa found herself wishing for pockets.

He waited for her to perch on the sofa before he sat on the opposite end. There was far more space between them than there had been when they sat on that bench.

“I wasn’t privy to the guest list before the ball. I didn’t know who my advisors thought to marry me to. I certainly hadn’t been aware that some of the men had sent _proxies_.”

A little more bitterness than she expected leaked out into the word _proxies_. She saw how it made Jon flinch.

“I thought you were there as a suitor,” she whispered. “After you escorted me back inside, I went to tell my advisors that I was going to propose. That’s when they told me you were there for Mance Rayder. I leaked your name to the press as one of the men I was considering.”

“I wasn’t invited, though. Your advisors clearly didn’t think I would be an appropriate match. Or an equal one,” he muttered.

“But you’re the one that I want,” she whispered.

“But… You’re the queen. I used to work in the kitchens. What… Why…?”

Sansa noticed how he flexed his right hand, how his foot bounced.

She was making him uncomfortable.

There was no romance in this. She thought with Jon, even if it was arranged, it could be like her parents’ marriage. There could be attraction and respect. Love, even.

She made it seem so clinical. Like she was choosing him because the public liked him. Like her feelings or those butterflies she’d felt with him in the maze meant nothing.

Sansa recalled how when he kneeled in front of her, his earnest eyes so soft and warm, she felt so safe and secure.

She stood suddenly and kneeled in front of him, her dress providing little cushion for her knees on the rough carpet.

Jon straightened sharply, his back rigid.

“I’m choosing you, Jon, if you’ll have me,” she murmured, her hands resting on his knees. She could feel his burning warmth through his jeans.

“I still don’t understand. Why me?”

If she were bolder, Sansa might have crawled into his lap and kissed him. If she weren’t queen, she might have unzipped her own dress and let it pool on the floor.

She might have taken his hands and put them on her body, because they were clenched into fists as if he was restraining himself from touching her.

“Because you helped me breathe at the ball, and because talking with you was the only time I wasn’t pretending all night. Because I dreamt about how it felt to have you undo my gown. Because…” His eyes were dark and consuming. She thought she could see his heart beating through his t-shirt. Sansa could feel her pulse everywhere. “Because I think I could fall in love with you if I let myself, and I want to, Jon. I want to fall in love with you.”

Jon’s hands unclenched and drifted towards her, but stopped, hovering just above her own hands.

“M-may I?”

Sansa nodded.

She felt sparks and fireworks and butterflies as his fingers slid against hers.

Jon pulled her to her feet, so that they were both standing, her feet between his.

When they had been in the maze, Sansa hadn’t realized quite how large his hands were. They spanned nearly her entire back and the sensation was overwhelming.

Sansa kissed him, deeply, uncontrollably. With such passion that she knocked him backwards, and they tumbled onto the sofa. The skirt of her dress rode high up her thighs with how she had fallen onto his lap, straddling him.

This was unseemly. It wasn’t how a queen should behave.

Sansa didn’t care.

Not when his hands caressed her bare thighs or when her hips rolled against his.

“Wait, wait,” Jon gasped, pulling back. His chest was heaving just as heavily as hers was. Sansa tried not to let disappointment flood her. It was only the fact that his hands were still around her waist that Sansa clung to.

“This isn’t…It isn’t proper.”

“Are… Do you not want me? Not want to marry me?” She had to scramble to add the second piece, because that wasn’t what she was thinking about at all.

“Of course, I want you, Sansa. Walking away from you at the ball was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I told Mance that you were beautiful and smart and that if you hadn’t been queen, I probably would have proposed on the spot. I told him that whoever marries you would be the luckiest bastard.”

“So you’re the lucky bastard,” Sansa laughed, breathless at his words.

“I’m the damn lucky bastard,” he repeated, kissing her again.

**Author's Note:**

> I may have read The Selection series recently and this was the perfect excuse to write this.


End file.
